


Highways They Call Home

by Strawberry_Champagne



Category: Check Please! (Webcomic)
Genre: (Off-Screen) Accidental Outing, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Different First Meeting, Canon-Typical Drug Use, Fluff and Angst, M/M, Pre-Relationship, Road Trips, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-06-02
Updated: 2016-10-16
Packaged: 2018-07-11 18:40:37
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 6,923
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7065631
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Strawberry_Champagne/pseuds/Strawberry_Champagne
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Bittle,” Shitty said again. “Where are you headed?”</p>
<p>It was an innocuous question, on the face of things. Eric was clearly going somewhere – the duffel bag was evidence of that. The problem was that he didn't really have an answer. “Away” didn't seem like it would cut it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Hope you enjoy the fic! Please let me know about any typos, especially things like Eric accidentally getting called Bitty when no one has given him that nickname yet, etc. Tags will be updated as we go; rating based on probable future content.

Eric frowned up at the red tractor-trailer as it lumbered into motion and drove away. _Hitchhiking is dangerous_ , his mother had always told him – and he hadn't really believed her until now. Not until the truck driver who picked him up had asked him increasingly creepy personal questions. Until he suggested what Eric could do to pay him for the ride. Eric thanked his lucky stars that the man had decided to let him out when he asked, even if he'd grumbled about it. It could have been a lot worse. 

The side of the road was dry and dusty, asphalt shimmering in the oppressive heat of a Georgia summer. Eric shouldered his duffel bag – it was pretty light, as he hadn't had much time to pack before he left home. It was about half a mile to the nearest gas station, and he was sweating through his shirt by the time he trudged into the parking lot. Inside the convenience store, he dug around in his pockets for what little change he had. He sighed at what he found. Just enough for a cold bottle of water, which he pressed to his heated cheeks, to his forehead, to the back of his neck. Condensation dripped down and cooled his skin where it evaporated. Eric unscrewed the cap and took a long drink, then settled outside at a wooden picnic table. He peeled off pieces of chipping green paint as he considered what to do next.

A car door slammed nearby. Male voices carried across the parking lot, one animated and boisterous, the other quiet and steady.

“Damn, it's hot as _balls_ out here,” said the first guy. His friend said something in reply, but it was too low for Eric to make out.

“Nah, I'm telling you, man. Once our society's enlightened enough to shed the taboo of public nudity? Then, and only then, will they be able to swing free of their sweaty fabric prisons. FREE THE BALLS!”

Eric choked on a mouthful of water, sputtering all over his shirt as it went down the wrong pipe. Next thing he knew, someone was pounding on his back.

“Holy shit, are you okay? Do you need the Heimlich? CPR? I'm certified in both, I was a lifeguard one summer in high school–” 

Eric coughed, waving him off.

“I'm fine,” he said.

He coughed a few more times.

“You sure?”

“Yeah.” Eric cleared his throat. “Thanks.”

Apparently still skeptical, the guy swung himself down onto the bench across from him. He was tall and lanky, with long brown hair (pushed back into a bandana) and an impressively bushy mustache.

“Mind if I sit here? I'm shitty.” He extended a hand across the table.

“You're...what?” Eric wrinkled his nose.

“Shitty. That's my name. Well, the one that matters, at least.”

Shitty winked. It looked ridiculous. Eric shook the offered hand.

“The magnificent beaut of a man over yonder is Jack, my most bosom of friends.” 

Shitty waved to his dark-haired companion, still at the car pumping gas. Jack raised a hand, acknowledging the wave, then returned his attention to the pump. Shitty smiled apologetically.

“Ah, he's a bit weird with new people. We're working on that.”

Eric hummed, not sure what to say.

“Look,” said Shitty, “I don't mean to pry, but are you sure you're okay? You look kinda overheated, bro.”

Shitty was examining Eric more closely than he was comfortable with at the moment – his gaze dropped to the duffel bag at their feet, and Eric squirmed. He'd never been in a position like this before, and it was embarrassing. He didn't want this guy's pity. Shitty was apparently reading Eric's duffel bag now, mouthing the words emblazoned across it.

“Dude! You play hockey? No way – _hey Jack_ , this kid plays hockey!”

Jack flashed a thumbs up distractedly and Shitty rolled his eyes.

“Jack Laurent! Get your big ass over here,” he called, hands cupped around his mouth. Jack finished screwing the gas cap back on, seemingly in no real hurry, and jogged over to them.

Shitty had called Jack a 'beaut', and Eric...didn't disagree. He had these sleepy, intense blue eyes, set off by a fantastic bone structure. The guy could model if he wanted to, Eric was sure. (Maybe he did. Lord.) Even besides the handsome face, Jack was fit and muscular – and yes, possessed a rather prominent posterior. Not that Eric was looking.

“So my new friend here,” Shitty was saying, and apparently they were friends now? “This kid plays for the Kennesaw State Hockey Club. The...Owls? Is that an owl?” 

Shitty squinted at the embroidered mascot on Eric's duffel, leaning down to get a closer look.

“Yes,” Eric said. 

“Adorable,” Shitty declared. He didn't sound like he was making fun. “Much better than our school's, let me tell you...”

“Oh?”

“Yeah, we got a motherfuckin' anthropomorphic dancing well. I mean, sure, I guess it goes with the name, but really–”

“Y'all go to Samwell?” Eric pressed a hand to his own chest. Shitty and Jack both looked over at him, clearly surprised.

“Oh, you know Samwell, eh?” It's the first thing that Jack has said to him. 

“Know it?” Eric sighed. “I almost went there.”

“No shit? What happened, bro?”

“Umm...I applied for a hockey scholarship. My parents couldn't afford to send me there but it was my first choice, you know? I was accepted, but – I didn't get the scholarship. There might've been too much ice dancing on my audition tape? I don't know.”

Shitty snorted. “There can never be too much ice dancing.”

“You were a figure skater?”

Eric looked over at Jack, nodded. “Yep. Until we had to move away from my trainer. Even went to Junior Regionals one year. It was so much fun, y'all. Hockey's great too! Just...it's, ah, a little rougher?”

“It is that,” Shitty agreed, clapping him on the shoulder.

Bringing up these bittersweet memories of what Eric had almost had, of attending his dream school, and now faced with two people who actually went there – it was making him a little emotional. He could feel himself crumpling, and willed himself to hold it together.

“At any rate, I consider myself a fine judge of character and athletic prowess,” said Shitty, hand over his heart, “and you, sir, are an honorary Wellie in my book.”

That was it. Let the waterworks begin. Eric's eyes welled up with tears and he buried his face in his arms, crossed on the table. His shoulders shook with the effort of not audibly sobbing. He was mostly successful.

“Shit. Kid – shit, I still don't know your name. Uh. Bittle.”

Eric's head jerked up. How...?

Shitty tapped his back, a one-two staccato between his shoulder blades.

“Sorry. It's on your jersey.”

Oh. Right.

Eric swiped a hand across his eyes. These guys would be leaving soon, now that he was a crying mess, and he would have to decide where he was going to go, and how he was going to get there. He was suddenly paralyzed with fear. Couldn't imagine standing on the side of the road again, waiting for some kind (oh, please let them be kind) stranger to pick him up and get him a little further away from it all. His throat was closing up with tears and panic. He clenched his hands into fists.

Shitty cleared his throat.

“Bittle,” he said again. “Where are you headed?”

It was an innocuous question, on the face of things. Eric was clearly going _somewhere_ – the bag was evidence of that. The problem was that he didn't really have an answer. “Away” didn't seem like it would cut it.

“Biloxi,” his mouth spit out, almost at random. “I've got some cousins around those parts.”

It wasn't a lie, not exactly. It was as good a destination as any. For now.

“Biloxi,” Shitty repeated, sounding out the syllables one by one. “Hey, Jack, isn't that along our route? We're going to New Orleans!”

He pronounced it the proper way, and Eric relaxed a little despite himself.

“I think so,” said Jack. “It's close by, right?”

Eric nodded. But wait, were they–?

“Am I wrong,” said Shitty, “in assuming that you do not, in fact, have a car.” He raised an eyebrow, and Eric hunched his shoulders, shook his head.

“Shitty, what are you doing,” Jack monotoned. Eric was honestly wondering the same thing, but the tiny flame of hope in his chest flickered a little at Jack's furrowed brow.

Shitty was typing something into his phone.

“Okay, so it's a five hour drive from here to Biloxi. I think we can handle that. It's starting to get dark now, so we might stay the night somewhere, but you can crash with us.”

“Shits...”

“Jack.” Shitty's voice sharpened a little. “A hockey bro does not leave another hockey bro in need. It's in the _bylaws_.”

Eric had no idea what was going on, but he was Team Shitty all the way.

“The by-” Jack sighed, pinching his nose. “We don't know this guy, though. He could be a junkie or something. Sorry.”

This last was directed toward Eric, which, excuse me? Apology _not_ accepted.

“Woah, brah. Rude,” said Shitty. “He's practically a Wellie! He would be on the team if those suits in admissions had gotten their heads out of their asses. He's our Lost Teammate.”

Shitty waved his hand in an arc as he said this last bit, as if the words were written on the sky. Jack frowned, and they stared each other down for a moment, apparently communicating in a way that Eric couldn't comprehend. Eventually, Jack shook his head.

“Fine.”

Eric frowned as he watched Jack stalk back to the car and climb into the driver's seat.

“Are you sure it's okay? I can...I can find another way to get there. I don't wanna cause any trouble, you know.”

Shitty scoffed, flapping a dismissive hand in Jack's general direction.

“What, because of him? Jack's just a Grumpy Gus sometimes. It'll be fine, dude.”

It was kind of unbelievable that these two (well, Shitty at the very least) were willing to take Eric all the way to his destination – albeit, the one he had just made up on the spot. He groaned, realizing that he was still just delaying the inevitable. But he needed to keep moving. He'd have to figure out the rest later.

Eric screwed the cap back onto his water and followed Shitty to the car. It was a pretty average dark gray four-door, but in newer condition than he'd expect for college students. He threw his duffel bag into the trunk once it was popped and slid into the back seat.

“I'm gonna be sayin' this a lot, but thank you _so much_ for the ride, y'all.”

Jack met Eric's eyes in the rear-view mirror, nodded minutely.

“Don't even mention it, bro! Or, I mean, mention if it makes you feel better. But we're happy to help, aren't we Jack?”

“Mm.”

Eric was worried that things would lapse into an awkward silence once they got on the road, that he would start babbling like he always did when he got nervous, but Shitty seemed determined not to let that happen. Before long he had been regaled with stories about the Samwell hockey team and their “totally 'sawesome” manager who went by the improbable name of Lardo, their rivalry with the lacrosse team, and epic keg parties at the Haus, a building that seemed to have enough of a personality to be a member of the team itself. He laughed and made comments whenever appropriate, trying not to mentally insert himself into the stories, trying not to imagine what might have been.

Jack stayed quiet, but seemed to relax a bit once they got underway. He even smiled at some of Shitty's stories, a soft curve to his lips that you might miss if you blinked.

Their road trip mix, kept at a fairly low volume, was a steady stream of classic rock and alternative hits from the past few decades – not much that Eric could recognize from the last ten years or so, and certainly nothing that would be on his own playlists. It wasn't objectionable, though. Just a bit bland. He preferred music that was a little sexier, a little more dance-y. Something he could shake his hips to. Every once in a while, Shitty would sing along for a chorus, high and reedy and totally off key. Eric laughed brightly at a particularly dramatic attempt, and Shitty winked at him over his shoulder.

They drove for about two and a half hours after the sun set. It was almost 11 PM when Shitty cracked a yawn and asked Jack how he was feeling, if they needed to find a motel for the night. Jack nodded, so they pulled off at the next exit that had signs for fast food and lodging. Once they had pulled into the parking lot of a Holiday Inn Express and Jack had gone into the lobby to check in, Shitty turned around in his seat to talk to Eric.

“So I know we're only a couple hours from your cousins' place, but I don't want to push it too much tonight. We've been taking it easy on this trip, not driving too late. It's pretty chill.”

“Okay.”

“Anyway, you're welcome to crash in the room with us, bro, free of charge. We'll head out in the morning, get our continental breakfast on and be back on the road in no time. But! I _totally_ understand if rooming with a couple of strange guys might be too weird for you. If you don't wanna, it's cool, no pressure! Not that I'd exactly recommend this, but there's a diner over there that should be full of truckers who might be willing to take on a temporary passenger–”

Eric shuddered.

“Alright, that's a no. That's good, that's fine. Bittle. Breathe.” Shitty sucked in a deep breath and let it out in a hissing rush. Eric copied him, breathing deep through his nose. “Okay. Here's what we're gonna do. We're gonna order a pizza, right? You like pizza?”

“Um. Yes?”

“Of course you do! Okay, so pizza. Pepperoni, cheese, maybe even some veggies for the hockey robot.”

Eric laughed a little at this. He nodded.

“Then we'll put on some cable TV movie, a dumb horror flick or cheeseball comedy, something we can make fun of. And we'll smoke up, drink a few beers, and forget about all of the bad shit that has your face looking like that. Yeah?”

Eric didn't know what his face looked like, but it must not have been good. It had been a very long day. He exhaled shakily, tried on a smile.

“Yeah. Sounds good, Shitty.” He tilted his head. “Wait. Did you say 'smoke up'?”

Shitty grinned. “Hell yeah, brah! Grade A ganja! Or, y'know. You don't have to smoke any. More for me, 'n shit.”

“More for you,” Eric agreed. Shitty barked a laugh, then looked over as Jack approached the car. The driver's side window was rolled down, so he leaned into it.

“We're all set,” he said. “They gave us two queens, but might have an extra trundle they can roll in.”

“If not, you and I can share!” said Shitty. He seemed oddly pleased by this prospect.

“...Only if you promise to wear pants, Shits.”

“Awww. Killjoy.”

Eric smiled at their banter as they got out of the car to grab their stuff – he still didn't entirely understand Jack and Shitty's friendship, but it seemed very comfortable. Though it had only been a few hours, he was becoming increasingly convinced that these were good guys that he had fallen in with, and felt grateful for it. If his luck was beginning to change, it was about damn time. Today had been a nightmare, and he still didn't want to think about it.

“I do believe someone said somethin' about pizza,” Eric said brightly, “and I don't know about y'all, but I'm fixin' to be hungry enough to eat a horse if I don't eat supper right quick.”

Shitty blinked at him, clutched at his chest and turned to Jack.

“Oh my god, can we keep him?”

Jack snorted, but he was smiling a little when he slung an arm around Shitty's shoulders. 

“C'mon, Bittle,” he said, steering them toward the stairs. “We're getting the Meat Lover's pizza, though. If you're really playing college hockey, you look like you could use the protein.”

Eric scoffed, wondering if that was a dig at his height, build or both – then he realized that the guy was _chirping_ him, and he couldn't bring himself to be angry. And so he went.


	2. Chapter 2

Shitty didn't mean to eavesdrop. He just happened to be rolling a joint on the bed closest to the open hotel room door. Bittle was talking quietly, but not so quiet that Shitty couldn't help but overhear.

“Hey, Mama.”

He was bent low over the railing of the second-story walkway outside their room, cell phone pressed to his ear. Sickly yellow lights flickered above him, illuminating the small insects and moths that were attracted to the glow. Shitty could hear a faint crackling as they bumped into the bulbs, peeled off in dizzying spirals, then flew right back in again.

“Sorry, I'm sorry. No. I'm okay. I know. I know.”

It was a relief to know that there was someone back at home who was obviously worried about this kid. Shitty wasn't sure what his situation was, but maybe he wasn't totally alone, so that was good.

“...Mama. I _can't._ Not – not yet.”

There was a tremor in Bittle's voice. It was quiet on his end for several long moments, and then so muffled that Shitty couldn't catch much else. After a little while, Bittle lowered the phone and let his hands drape over the railing. He looked straight ahead, out into the parking lot, his expression a complicated combination of sad, exhausted and determined.

Shitty wouldn't stand for that. Or, he would stand, but only to head outside and lean against the railing next to Bittle.

“D'you mind?” He gestured with a lighter at the joint between his fingers. Bittle blinked at him, then slowly shook his head.

“No, never mind me. Go right ahead.”

“Cool.”

Shitty flicked the lighter and held the joint up to the flame, aware that Bittle was watching him intently. He took a long puff, held his breath and let it out nice and slow.

“You're not worried you'll get caught with that?” Bittle tilted his head, and Shitty coughed out a laugh as the last of the smoke escaped his lips.

“Nah, bro. I mean, if I saw a cop or something? Sure. But most people don't give a shit, long as you're kinda keeping to yourself.”

Bittle nodded, and Shitty tilted the hand holding the joint toward him, not even thinking about it. It was just good manners to offer. He remembered too late that Bittle had been pretty clear on his lack of interest in partaking.

To Shitty's vast surprise, then, Bittle reached for the joint, something flashing in his eyes.

“Apparently I'm already goin' to hell,” he said, “so why not.”

Shitty's eyebrows shot up but he recovered quickly, clapping Bittle on the shoulder. 

“Sure, I mean. Heaven's overrated, anyway.” He grinned, then noticed that Bittle was still kind of...staring at the joint, like it might bite him or something. “This your first time?”

“Um.”

“It's okay, no judgment here, bro! Listen, this is the real mellow shit. Good for stress, good for sleeping. Should chill you out, y'know?”

Bittle nodded. Brought the joint to his lips, a little stiff and awkward, sucking in a breath. Too much breath. The cherry got close to his fingers and he cursed as he almost dropped the joint. Shitty reached out, just in case, but Bittle regained control before it could fall.

“Sorry,” he breathed.

“'S cool. Try again?”

This time went better, slow and steady, much more cautious.

“There you go. Now suck it in, hold it there for a sec. Aaaand let it out.”

There was coughing. That was kind of inevitable, for the first time. Shitty patted Bittle's back, much lighter than when he thought he might be choking to death at the gas station.

“Alright, there you go. Not so bad, yeah?”

Bittle gave him a sideways look as Shitty took another drag. Still, he took the joint when it was offered again. They passed it back and forth a few times, silently surveying the dark lot – the parked cars and freeway noise, frogs croaking in the distance, the silvery ripples of the empty hotel pool.

A cacophony of questions rattled around in Shitty's head, but he forced himself to bite his tongue. Being friends with Jack had shown him that yeah, sometimes people needed to be pushed a little out of their comfort zones, but you also could easily push too far. 

“Thanks,” Bittle said quietly, after a little while.

“Don't even mention it, dude! Sharing is caring.”

“Oh. No, I meant...I told you I'd have to thank y'all a bunch of times. For the ride and all.” Bittle smiled down at his feet. “But, um. Thanks for this too! I think...I think I feel something? Kinda floaty.”

Bittle tilted his head, and Shitty threw an arm around his shoulders, impulsive.

“Awww. Baby's first high.” He grinned, giving Bittle's shoulder a squeeze before he let his arm drop.

“Excuse _you_! I am nineteen years old as of last month, I'll have you know.”

Bittle stuck out his lower lip a little, pretty much proving Shitty's point.

“Oh, no shit? I thought you were like, sixteen? Seventeen at most. Sorry, man.”

“Um. You do know I play hockey in _college._ ”

“Chyeah. But I thought you were one of those – I dunno, homeschooled wunderkind deals?”

“And you gave me _weed_.” Bittle pressed a hand to his chest, scandalized. “You're a terrible influence, Mr. Shitty. Horrible.”

Shitty couldn't help it, he bent over at the waist laughing at Bittle's mock-stern little frown.

“Are ya done?”

This kid had sass in spades, Shitty was realizing, set off into another burst of laughter by Bittle's arch brow, the way he tilted his hips against the railing. He wiped his eyes as he caught his breath.

“Yeah. Yeah, sorry. Phew. Wanna help me finish this off?”

Bittle shrugged, held the joint up for Shitty to re-light it. He blew smoke up in a thin stream that hung suspended in hazy ribbons. By now, he only coughed a little. 

Shitty snuffed the joint remnant and tossed it into a nearby trashcan, making sure that it was buried in garbage thoroughly enough to not be spotted by casual passers-by. When he returned, Bittle was still looking out into the parking lot, but his gaze seemed focused somewhere far away. 

“How're you feeling?”

Bittle turned, tilted his head. “Hm? Oh. Good. Kinda hungry.”

Shitty chuckled. “Yeah, that'll happen. Jack ordered the pizza, it should be on its way soon.”

“Good,” Bittle repeated. Something passed over his face, then – the tiniest hint of a shadow.

“Hey,” said Shitty, serious now. “None of that. Happy thoughts only, bro.”

And shit, if that didn't seem to make it worse. Shitty grasped for something to say, to pull Bittle out before a downward spiral could happen. Jack never wanted to smoke weed, said it set off his anxiety – and Shitty _totally_ got that, but it meant that he hadn't been properly high for the week or so that they'd been on the road. Just wasn't as fun when he was alone. And now? Now he was getting good and baked, and Bittle seemed as if he could use some guidance.

Shitty could do that.

“Talk to me, Bits,” he said, the shortened name dropping without much thought – he was called Shits, so Bittle was Bits. This only made sense. Bittle looked up from where he had been very seriously studying his shoes.

“About what?” Bittle said lightly, eyes darting away from his.

“Um...your cousins? What are they like? Got any 'swawesome plans for hanging out once you're in town?”

Bittle chewed his lip. That hesitation seemed to confirm Shitty's suspicions.

“They're...um. Oh gosh, I haven't seen them since they were little, I have no idea what they're like now,” Bittle wailed, covering his face with his hands. “What am I even doing? Lord.”

“Bittle...”

“It's Eric.” He sniffed. “But my friends call me Bitty.”

“...Okay. Bitty. I have three questions for you. You are under no obligation to answer any of them, but I'm not gonna judge you, alright?”

“I...okay?”

“Question number one.” Shitty raised his pointer finger, holding it a few inches in front of Bittle –Bitty's face. “Are you in trouble with the law?”

Bitty blinked.

“With the – no! No.” He shook his head emphatically. “Nothing like that. Goodness.”

“Oh, thank god.” Shitty slumped against the rail. “'Cause I'm only _pre_ -law. I'd still have your back, brah, but legally I could do fuck-all for you.”

“Thanks?”

“Question number two!” A second finger popped up next to the first. “Do your cousins know you're coming?”

The effect of this question was immediate. Bittle's face fell, his arms crossing where he leaned. No answer necessary.

“Question two-A...”

“Two-A? I don't remember agreeing to a two-A.”

“Should've read the fine print; that's how they always get ya. So, do you even have their phone number to let them know you're coming?”

“They're...we're Facebook friends, I think? I hadn't really thought that far ahead,” Bitty said quietly, looking more morose by the moment.

“Final question.” Shitty dropped his hand back down to his side. “Bro. What happened?”

Bitty met his eyes, and Shitty did his best to channel as much earnest sympathy into them as he could. He was kinda stoned, so it was difficult to tell whether this was successful, but he was trying, dammit. Bitty took a sharp breath, and his mouth twisted like he tasted something unpleasant.

“Okay, first of all,” he said. “Y'all said know that I'm gay.”

Shitty tried to keep his expression neutral, but some hint of surprise at this point-blank revelation must have shown through. Bittle flinched, suddenly looking both horrified and uncertain.

“Oh, hey, that's cool, man,” Shitty was quick to say, smiling softly. “Thanks for trusting me with that.”

“...That's it?”

“What?”

Bitty sighed. “Sorry. I forget y'all go to Samwell. It's sure different here in the South. Even at school, where there's more accepting people than out in the country. It's still a little backwards, I guess.”

“Yeah, I dunno. People kind of come out to me all the time. You've heard the 'one in four' thing, right?”

“Are you kiddin'?” Bitty snorted. “It was one of the biggest reasons that Samwell was my dream school, Shitty. To be able to be myself without being surrounded by bigots tellin' me that I'm...wrong.”

“Fuck 'em.”

Another sigh. “I wish it were that easy, y'know? You asked me what happened. My biggest fear. That's what happened.”

Bitty fidgeted with the hem of his jersey, and Shitty waited.

“I work at a camp sometimes, when I'm home for the summer,” he said after a moment. “It's so fun and rewarding – the kids grow so much, even just over that summer! Watchin' them make new friends, learn new skills? I love it.”

“Sounds like fun, man. Kids are great,” Shitty agreed.

“So, this summer, there was this...this boy. Another counselor.” A dark look passed over Bitty's face. “I liked him, I guess. Didn't think there was a snowball's chance, but...well. I thought I was bein' careful. It was just a little...when we were on break, you know.”

Shitty nodded. He didn't know, but he could guess. This wasn't going anywhere good.

“I don't even know what happened! Maybe he got scared? I've been rackin' my brain on how I could've offended him, or if maybe the whole thing was some kinda cruel joke?”

Bitty frowned. He looked lost, his brow deeply furrowed. 

“Anyway, long story short. He...told somebody. About just me, not him. Not me n' him. The administration called me into the office. Told me, um, that I was fired. Didn't even let me tell the kids where I was going. Said it was...not appropriate, for someone like me to be stayin' at an overnight camp. That...that the parents wouldn't...”

Bitty was crying again, tears rolling down his cheeks. He scrubbed a hand across his eyes, breath hitching a little.

“That,” said Shitty, “is fucked up.”

Bitty laughed a little, half a sob. “Thank you.”

“No, I'm serious! What the fuck, man. How is this happening in 20-fuckin'-14? How do people actually think that who you love has anything to do with pedophilia or some shit?”

His jaw clenched, all previous chill from the weed being replaced with righteous anger.

“I don't know? I've been askin' that question my whole life, Shitty.”

“Ugh. Look, I am so sorry that happened to you, bro. But you're safe here with me n' Jack. Alright?” 

Shitty held out his hand to Bitty to grasp, then hauled him into a full-on bear hug. Bitty made a surprised noise, then relaxed into it, hands tightening around his shoulders.

Somewhere behind him, a throat cleared. He glanced back over his shoulder at a teenage boy in a black polo shirt and cap, shifting from foot to foot awkwardly, bulky pizza warmer bag balanced in his hands.

“Oh, sweet! Pizza dude! Don't mind us. Just two bros, huggin' it out. Uhhh, Jack has the cash, though.”

Shitty nodded in the direction of their hotel room door, and the pizza guy rapped his knuckles against it. He was still squeezing Bitty tight while the money changed hands, a weird look and a muttered comment thrown his way as the guy headed down the stairs. Shitty flipped him off behind Bitty's back, grinning wide and easy.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, a couple things:
> 
> 1\. I have been around weed enough to know some things about it (I live in CA, it's legal with a medical card, so). However, some details may not be 100% spot on - like maybe Shitty and Bitty should "act" more high, but let's just say it's a very mild strain and so they can hold a conversation pretty normally still. And it's a small joint.  
> 2\. This chapter ended up having a distinct lack of Jack, but I swear it's definitely still a Zimbits story. He'll be back next chapter for sure!
> 
> Thanks so much for reading and commenting! Reading your thoughts about the story so far always makes my day. :)


	3. Chapter 3

A spotlight fell on the ice, illuminating a solitary figure dressed in black. He struck a pose, one flowy-sleeved arm flung above his head. Gold patterned fabric at his wrists shimmered in the light.

When the music began – instrumental, but it was hard to place the melody – he started to skate. His movements weren't just utilitarian, like in hockey, but more graceful, almost dance-like. At times he would glide forward on one skate, the other leg extended and lifted in a way that spoke to an incredible flexibility. Other times, he would spin in place so fast that it made you dizzy to watch.

The music was building toward some kind of climax, the speed and complexity of the skating increasing in turn. At the height of this momentum, going around a curve on the rink, he launched himself into the air, body twisting into a tight spin all the way around. He landed on one skate, arms out to his sides as if he were about to take a bow, and the crowd erupted into feverish applause.

Then, abruptly, there was silence. The figure stood frozen in place on the ice, a close-up of his face revealing a small, satisfied smile.

“Holy shit, Bits!” Shitty yelled, apparently unconcerned about their probably-sleeping hotel neighbors. He hit the pause button before the next video in the YouTube playlist could automatically queue up.

“Not bad, Bittle,” Jack agreed.

Shitty punched him in the shoulder and gave him an incredulous look, mouthing _not bad?_ at him. Jack wasn't sure what his problem was. He had meant it – the kid obviously had some skill. He'd made it all the way to a regional competition, after all.

“Now look, y'all are making me blush. Here, that's enough of that.”

Bittle navigated away from the videos, smiling softly. He closed the laptop and slid it a bit further down the bed.

“I mean it, brah. You were great! Why'd you quit?”

Bittle chewed his lip for a moment.

“Oh. Well. You know...” He exhaled. “Hard to be the boy wearing sequins when your father is head coach of the football team, I guess.”

“Ugh. Fuckin' patriarchal gender normative bullshit.”

“Mmhm. It's not going anywhere soon in _Georgia_ , I can tell you that much.”

Bittle shook his head and reached for another piece of pizza. Shitty frowned deeply, looked as if he were about to say something but thought better of it. He tugged on Jack's shirt sleeve and leaned down to whisper in his ear.

“Hey, I wanna talk to you about something. Come into the bathroom with me for a sec.”

“Uh. Okay.”

Once the door had clicked shut, Shitty spun around to face Jack, arms crossed. He looked determined and excited. This was never a good sign.

“We're kidnapping Bittle,” he announced in a loud whisper.

“... _What_.”

“I mean. Not _kidnapping_ kidnapping. Obviously. You know what I mean.”

Jack didn't.

“Okay, look, I know this vacay was meant to be like. Total bro-bonding time. Drive-through daiquiris and doughnuts. All that jazz.”

Shitty did actual jazz hands, and Jack asked himself (not for the first time) why they were friends.

“But this kid needs us! He shoulda been a Wellie – fuck, maybe he still can be. But I'm getting way ahead of myself. I want him to come with us.”

“He already is coming with us, Shitty.”

“I mean all the way. For the rest of our vacation.”

“...No.”

“Jack!”

“It doesn't make any sense, Shits. We don't know him; he's not our responsibility. Seriously, what's gotten into you?”

“You don't know what he's been through, man!”

“You're right. I don't. Isn't he supposed to be visiting his family? In Biloxi?”

“That's just it, Jack. He made that shit up. He... I can't tell you the rest of it, but the visiting cousins part was bullshit. They don't even know he's coming!”

Outside the bathroom door, Jack heard a noise. It sounded suspiciously like a hiccuping sob.

“Oh, fuck. Fuckfuckfuckshit. We were too loud–”

Shitty threw the door open and stumbled out with Jack close behind. On the bed, Bittle was curled up in a fetal position, looking stricken and pale. He was breathing way too fast.

“ _Merde_. He's having a panic attack.”

Shitty whirled around. “He's– what? How can you–”

“Hyperventilation. Rapid pulse. Dilated pupils. Sudden onset of intense fear or feelings of doom.”

Jack rattled off the list of symptoms clinically. He reached for Bittle's wrist to confirm the fast heartbeat, fingers pressed against the pulse-point. Bittle didn't resist, only groaned softly.

“Jack,” he gasped, eyes wide but not really focusing correctly. “Something's really, really wrong.”

“I know. It feels bad, but you're going to be okay. Trust me.” Jack nodded briskly, then turned to Shitty. “How many beers did he have? Did you see?”

“Uhhhh. I'm not sure. Just one or two, I think? Maybe three.”

Jack's brow furrowed, then he caught a familiar scent on Bittle's clothing. He looked back again.

“Did he smoke with you?”

Shitty grimaced. “Yeah. It, uh, it was his first time?”

“How much.”

“...Half a joint?”

“ _Shitty. _”__ Jack pinched the bridge of his nose.

“What? How was I supposed to know he'd react like this?”

“Don't talk 'bout me like 'm not here,” Bittle muttered, eyes fluttering.

“Sorry,” said Jack.

Bittle laughed softly. “Sorry,” he whispered, apparently trying to copy Jack's accent.

“I don't sound like that,” said Jack.

“You kind of do, man.” Shitty snickered.

Jack ignored him. He levered up off the bed to walk back into the bathroom, emerging with a cool damp washcloth.

“What's your favorite place in the world?” he asked as he laid the cloth on Bittle's forehead.

Bittle closed his eyes as he considered this.

“The kitchen, maybe? My... my Moomaw's kitchen.”

“Okay. Imagine it, then. What's outside the kitchen? Out the window.”

“A field.”

“Good. What do you hear outside?”

“There's, um... there's usually birds singing.”

“Okay.”

Jack stood again, crossing the room to grab his phone. He opened his nature sounds app and queued up a bird medley, then handed it to Bittle with earbuds attached. Bittle put one bud in, slow and shaky.

“Just breathe, Bittle. Is there anything else that helps you feel calm? An object, or...”

Jack's therapist had recommended a comforting touchstone of some kind during his attacks to keep him rooted in the present, like rubbing a game-winning puck. If Bittle had something like that... Jack looked over at his duffel bag skeptically. It was pretty light, couldn't hold much more than a couple changes of clothes, maybe some toiletries.

“I do, but... it's kind of embarrassing.”

“No judgments here, my man,” Shitty chimed in.

“He... it's in my bag.”

Jack brought the duffel over, unzipping it but letting Bittle root around until he found what he was looking for. Bittle pulled out a small stuffed rabbit and exhaled softly as he clutched it to his chest.

“Now that is just too damn cute,” Shitty cooed. Jack cut eyes over to him in warning, but he waved him off.

“His name is Señor Bun,” Bittle said quietly. He kept his eyes shut, a slight blush rising to his cheeks.

“Cool, man. Nothin' to be ashamed of there! Don't tell her I said this cause she might literally kill me, but Lardo's still got a piece of her baby blanket that she can't get rid of, ya know? And Jack here, you know what he eats before every hockey game? A plain ol' PB&J, just like you'd get packed in your lunch in grade school.”

Bittle smiled at that. He seemed to be feeling a little better already. That was good. Jack stood up, clapping Shitty on the shoulder as he headed for the other bed. He was completely exhausted, even though he wasn't the one who had the panic attack.

“Do you need anything else?” Shitty asked as Jack was pulling back the covers and sliding in between. “Any, uh... medication?”

He lowered his voice as if he knew how to talk at a volume that Jack couldn't hear loud and clear.

“No, I'm okay,” said Bittle.

“Do you want me to stay with you? I'm an A-plus big spoon, ask anyone. Hey Jack, am I not the world's greatest big spoon?”

Jack snaked a hand out from under the covers to give Shitty a thumbs-up.

“I can totes little spoon too, though. Lards jetpacks me all the time.”

“Haha, I bet. Thanks, but that's okay, Shitty.” Bittle yawned. “G'night.”

“Night, Bits.”

_/ \\_

Jack wasn't about to skip his morning run just because he was on vacation – he needed to be in top form for the training camps later in the summer, after all. He slipped out while the others were still asleep, trying his best not to make too much noise despite the fact that Shitty was snoring like a grizzly bear and Bittle had the blankets pulled up around his ears.

The motel parking lot was quiet just after dawn. The only signs of life were those of a few sleepy travelers loading up their cards to get an early start – the echo of a trunk slamming shut, the soft rumble of an idling engine. Even with the sun just barely risen, the air was already thick with humidity. Jack did a few laps around the parking lot that ringed the hotel, feeling sweatier than he should have been for such a minor exertion. He'd need to take another shower once he got back to the room.

But first, if Jack knew Shitty (and he'd say he knew the man better than most), he would want coffee. On his final lap, Jack ducked into the hotel lobby where the continental breakfast had been set up. He wasn't sure if Bittle was a coffee drinker, but poured a third cup just in case.

There was a lot that he didn't know about Bittle, Jack realized. It couldn't have just been his and Shitty's overheard conversation alone that had pushed him into such a panic. Even the marijuana would only be a catalyst, amplifying what was already there. Based on Shitty's “you don't know what he's been through” comment, Bittle must have confided something to him. He wouldn't suggest that a stranger crash their road trip without having a good reason for it. Even if it was a weird, roundabout, Shitty-logic kind of reason.

While it was true that Bittle wasn't their responsibility, after seeing him break down like that, Jack couldn't help feeling like he kind of _was_. A protective instinct kicked in like the one he felt for his teammates – and based on the skills on the ice that Jack had seen in those YouTube videos, Bittle could have been one of them if he had been accepted to Samwell on an athletic scholarship. Needed to bulk up a bit, maybe... but he could have been.

Shitty always seemed to wear Jack down in the end.

Back in the motel room, Jack set the cardboard tray on the small table. Shits was still snoring away, but Bittle seemed like he might be stirring into wakefulness. Jack crossed the room to stand by his bed, coffee in hand. As the scent wafted down to him, Bittle's nose twitched and his eyes slowly blinked open.

“Good morning,” said Jack.

Bittle looked up at him and screamed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading, hope you enjoyed! You can find me on tumblr at [strawbittychampagne](http://strawbittychampagne.tumblr.com/).


End file.
